Gómez Palacio

I went to Gómez Palacio during one of the worst periods of my life. I was twenty-three years old and I knew that my days in Mexico were numbered.

My friend Montero, who worked for the Arts Council, had found me a stint teaching a writing workshop in that town, with its hideous name. First, to warm up, I had to tour the other writing workshops the Arts Council had established throughout the region. A bit of a holiday in the north to start off, Montero said, then you can get down to work in Gómez Palacio and forget all your problems. I don’t know why I accepted. I knew that under no circumstances would I settle down in Gómez Palacio. I knew that I wouldn’t stick to running a writing workshop in some godforsaken town in northern Mexico.

I left Mexico City one morning on a bus packed to capacity and began my tour. I went to San Luis Potosí, Aguascalientes, Guanajuato, León—though probably not in that order. I can’t remember which town came first or how long I spent in each. Then Torreón and Saltillo. I went to Durango as well.

Finally, I arrived in Gómez Palacio and visited the Arts Council offices, where I met my future students. In spite of the heat, I couldn’t stop shivering. The director, a plump, middle-aged woman with bulging eyes, wearing a large print dress featuring almost all of the state’s native flowers, took me to my lodgings: a seedy motel on the edge of town, next to a highway leading nowhere.

She used to pick me up herself every morning. She had an enormous sky-blue car, which she drove perhaps too boldly, though generally speaking she wasn’t a bad driver. It was an automatic, and her feet barely reached the pedals. Invariably, the first thing we did was stop at a roadside restaurant that was visible in the distance from the motel, a reddish bump on the blue-and-yellow horizon. There we breakfasted on orange juice and Mexican-style eggs, followed by several cups of coffee, all paid for (I presume) with Arts Council vouchers—not cash, in any case.

Then she would lean back in her chair and talk about her life in that northern town; her poetry, which had been published by a small local press subsidized by the Arts Council; and her husband, who didn’t understand the poet’s calling or the suffering it entailed. Meanwhile, I chain-smoked Bali cigarettes and looked out the window at the highway, thinking about the disaster that was my life. Then we’d get back into her car and head off to the main office of the Arts Council, a two-story building whose only redeeming feature was an unpaved yard with three trees and an abandoned, or unfinished, garden, swarming with zombie-like adolescents, who were studying painting, music, or literature. The first time I was there, I hardly noticed the yard. The second time, it made me shudder. None of this makes any sense, I thought, but deep down I knew that it did make sense and that was what I found unbearably sad, to use a rather hyperbolic expression, though it seemed perfectly accurate at the time. Maybe I was confusing sense with necessity. Maybe I was just a nervous wreck.

I found it hard to get to sleep at night. I had nightmares. Before going to bed, I would make sure the door and the windows of my room were securely and tightly shut. My throat always felt dry, and the only solution was to drink water. I was continually getting up and going to the bathroom to refill my glass. Since I was up, I would check the door and the windows again to see that they were properly shut. Sometimes I forgot my fears and stayed at the window, looking at the desert stretching off into the dark. Then I went back to bed and closed my eyes, but having drunk so much water I soon had to get up again to urinate. And since I was up I would check all the locks and then stand listening to the distant sounds of the desert (the muffled hum of cars heading north or south) and looking out of the window at the night. And so on until dawn, when I could finally get some unbroken sleep, two or three hours at most.

On my last full day, while we were having breakfast, the director asked about my eyes. It’s because I don’t sleep much, I said. Yes, they’re bloodshot, she said, and changed the subject. That afternoon, as she was taking me back to the motel, she asked if I would like to drive for a bit. I don’t know how to drive, I said. She burst out laughing and pulled onto the shoulder. A white refrigerated truck went past. I managed to read what was written on the side in large blue letters: “the widow padilla’s meat.” The truck had Monterrey license plates and the driver stared at us with a curiosity that struck me as excessive. The director opened her door and got out. Get in the driver’s seat, she said. I obeyed. She got into the passenger seat and ordered me to go.

I drove along the gray strip of highway connecting Gómez Palacio and the motel. When I reached the motel, I didn’t stop. I looked over at the director: she was smiling—she didn’t mind if I drove a bit farther. Until then, both of us had stared at the highway in silence. But when the motel was behind us she started talking about her poetry, her work, and her insensitive husband. When she had said her piece, she turned on the cassette player and put in a tape: a woman singing rancheras. The singer had a sad voice that was always a couple of notes ahead of the orchestra. I’m her friend, the director said. What? I said. She’s a close friend of mine, the director said. Ah. She’s from Durango, she said. You’ve been there, haven’t you? Yes, I’ve been to Durango, I said. And what were the writing workshops like? Worse than the ones here, I replied, meaning it as a compliment, although she didn’t seem to take it that way. She’s from Durango, but she lives in Ciudad Juárez, she said. Sometimes, when she’s going back home to see her mother, she calls me up and I reorganize my schedule so I can go to Durango and spend a few days with her. That’s nice, I said, keeping my eyes on the road. I stay at her house—her mother’s house, actually, the director said. The two of us sleep in her room and spend hours talking and listening to records. Every now and then, one of us goes to the kitchen to make coffee. I usually take cookies with me, La Regalada cookies, her favorite. And we drink coffee and eat cookies. We’ve known each other since we were fifteen. She’s my best friend.

On the horizon I could see the highway disappearing into the hills. Night was beginning to approach from the east. Days before, at the motel, I had asked myself, What color is the desert at night? A stupid question, yet somehow I felt it held the key to my future, or perhaps not so much my future as my capacity for suffering. One afternoon, at the writing workshop in Gómez Palacio, a boy asked me why I wrote poetry and how long I thought I would go on doing it. The director wasn’t present. There were five students in the workshop: four boys and a girl. You could tell from the way they dressed that two of them were very poor. The girl was short and thin and her clothes were garish. The boy who asked the question should have been studying at a university; instead, he was working in a soap factory, the biggest and probably the only soap factory in the state. Another boy was a waiter in an Italian restaurant, the other two were in college, and the girl was neither studying nor working.

By chance, I replied. For a while, none of us said anything. I considered the possibility of taking a job in Gómez Palacio and staying there for the rest of my life. I had noticed a pair of pretty girls among the painting students in the yard. With a bit of luck, I might have managed to marry one of them. The prettier one also seemed to be the more conventional. I imagined a long, complicated engagement. I imagined a dark, cool house and a garden full of plants. And how long do you think you’ll go on writing? the boy who worked in the soap factory asked again. I could have said anything, but opted for simplicity. I don’t know, I said. What about you? I started writing because poetry sets me free, sir, and I’m never going to stop, he said, with a smile that barely hid his pride and determination. As an answer, it was too vague and declamatory to be convincing, yet somehow it gave me a glimpse of the factory worker’s life, not as it was then but as it had been when he was fifteen, or maybe twelve. I saw him running or walking through the outskirts of Gómez Palacio, under a sky that looked like a rockslide. I saw his friends and wondered how they could possibly survive. Yet, one way or another, they probably had.

Then we read some poems. The only one who had any talent was the girl. But by then I wasn’t sure of anything. When we came out of the classroom, the director was waiting with two guys who turned out to be civil servants employed by the state of Durango. My first thought was: They’re policemen, here to arrest me. The kids said goodbye and off they went, the skinny girl with one of the boys and the other three on their own. I followed them down the hallway with its peeling walls, as if I had forgotten to say something to one of them. From the door I saw them disappear at both ends of that street in Gómez Palacio.

The director said, She’s my best friend. That was all. The highway was no longer a straight line. In the rearview mirror I could see an enormous wall rising beyond the town. It took me a while to realize it was the night. The singer on the cassette began to warble another song. The lyrics were about a remote village in the north of Mexico. where everyone was happy except her. I had the impression that the director was crying. Silent, dignified, unstoppable tears. But I couldn’t confirm this impression. I had to keep my eyes on the road. The director took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. Turn the headlights on, I heard her say in a barely audible voice. I kept driving.

Turn on the headlights, she repeated, and without waiting for a response she leaned over and did it herself. Slow down, she said after a while, her voice stronger now, as the singer reached the final notes of her song. What a sad song, I said, just for something to say.

I stopped the car by the side of the road and got out. It wasn’t yet completely dark, but it was no longer day. The land all around us and the hills into which the highway stretched were a deep, intense shade of yellow that I have never seen anywhere else. As if the light (though it seemed to me not so much light as pure color) were charged with something, I didn’t know what, but it might well have been eternity. I was immediately embarrassed to have had such a thought. I stretched my legs. A car whizzed past, honking its horn. I told him where to go with a gesture. Maybe it wasn’t just a gesture. Maybe I yelled, Go fuck yourself, and the driver saw or heard me. But it’s unlikely, like most things in this story. In any case, when I think about the driver all I can see is my own image frozen in his rearview mirror: my hair is still long; I’m thin, wearing a denim jacket and a pair of awful, oversize glasses.

The car pulled up several metres in front of us. The driver didn’t get out or back up or honk the horn again, but his mere presence strained the space that we were now, in some sense, sharing. Cautiously, I walked around to the director’s side of the car. She rolled down her window and asked me what had happened. Her eyes were bulging more than ever. I said I didn’t know. It’s a man, she said, and slid across into the driver’s seat. I got into the seat she had left. It was hot and moist, as if she had a fever. Through the windshield I could see the man’s silhouette; like us, he was facing forward, toward the line of the highway beginning to wind its way through the hills.

It’s my husband, the director said with her eyes fixed on the stationary car, as if she were talking to herself. Then she flipped the cassette over and turned up the volume. Sometimes my friend calls me up, she said, when she’s touring in towns she doesn’t know. Once, she called from Ciudad Madero. She’d been singing all night at the Oil Workers Union building and she called me at four in the morning. Another time she called from Reinosa. That’s nice, I said. Not especially, the director said. She just calls. Sometimes she needs to talk. If my husband answers, she hangs up.

For a while, neither of us said anything. I imagined the director’s husband with the telephone in his hand. He picks up the telephone, says, Hello, who is it? Then he hears someone hang up at the other end and he hangs up, too, almost by reflex. I asked the director if she wanted me to get out and say something to the driver of the other car. There’s no need, she said. Which seemed a reasonable answer to me, although in fact it was crazy. I asked what her husband was going to do, if it really was her husband. He’ll stay there until we go, the director said. Then we’d better go now, I said. The director seemed to be lost in thought, though later it occurred to me that maybe all she was doing was closing her eyes and listening to her friend from Durango, drinking that song down to the very last drop. Then she turned on the ignition, pulled out slowly, and passed the car. I looked out the window as we went by, but the driver turned his back to us and I couldn’t see his face.

Are you sure it was your husband? I asked as we sped off again toward the hills. No, the director said, and started laughing. I don’t think it was. I started laughing, too. The car looked like his, she said, almost choking with laughter, but it probably wasn’t him. So it might have been? I said. Not unless he’s changed his license plates, the director said. At which point I understood that the whole thing had been a joke. I shut my eyes. Then we came out of the hills and into the desert: a plain swept by the headlights of cars heading north or back toward Gómez Palacio. It was already night.

Now we’re coming to a very special place, the director said. Those were her words: very special.

I wanted you to see this, she said proudly. This is one of my favorite things. She pulled over and stopped in a sort of rest area, although it was really no more than a patch of ground big enough for trucks to park on. Lights were sparkling in the distance: a town or a restaurant. We didn’t get out. The director pointed toward something—a stretch of highway that must have been about five kilometres away, maybe less, maybe more. She even wiped the inside of the windshield with a cloth so I could see better. I looked: I saw the headlights of cars. From the way the beams of light were swivelling, there must have been a bend in the highway. And then I saw some green shapes in the desert. Did you see? the director asked. Yes, lights, I replied. The director looked at me: her bulging eyes gleamed, as do, no doubt, the eyes of the small mammals native to the inhospitable environs of Gómez Palacio, in the state of Durango. Then I looked again in the direction she had indicated. At first, I couldn’t see anything, only darkness, the sparkling lights of that restaurant or town. Some cars passed and the beams of their headlights carved the space in two. Their progress was exasperatingly slow, but we were beyond exasperation.

And then I saw how the light, seconds after the car or truck had passed that spot, turned back on itself and hung in the air, a green light that seemed to breathe, alive and aware for a fraction of a second in the middle of the desert, set free, a marine light, moving like the sea but with all the fragility of earth, a green, prodigious, solitary light that must have been produced by something near that curve in the road—a sign, the roof of an abandoned shed, huge sheets of plastic spread on the ground—but that, to us, appeared to be a dream or a miracle, which comes to the same thing in the end.

Then the director started the car, turned it around, and drove back to the motel.

I was to leave for Mexico City the next day. When we got back to the motel, the director got out of the car and walked with me part of the way. Before we got to my room, she held out her hand and said goodbye. I know you’ll forgive my eccentricities, she said. After all, we both read poetry. I was grateful she hadn’t said we were both poets. When I got to my room, I switched on the light, took off my jacket, and drank some water straight from the tap. Then I went to the window. Her car was still in the parking lot. I opened the door and was hit in the face by a gust of desert air. The car was empty. A little farther off, beside the highway, I saw the director, who looked as if she were contemplating a river or the landscape of another planet. The way she was standing, with her arms slightly raised, she might have been talking to the air or reciting, or playing statues, like a little girl.

I didn’t sleep well. At dawn, the director came to fetch me. She took me to the bus station and told me that if I ever wanted to come back I would be very welcome at the workshop. I said I would have to think about it. She said that was fine, best to think things over. Then she said, A hug. I bent down and hugged her. The seat I had been given was on the other side of the bus, so I didn’t see her leave. The last thing I remember, vaguely, is her standing there, looking at the bus, or perhaps at her watch. Then I had to sit down so the other passengers could get past, and when I looked again she was gone. ♦